


The King's Braid

by telperion_15



Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-16
Updated: 2010-06-16
Packaged: 2017-10-10 03:46:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 13,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/95125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telperion_15/pseuds/telperion_15
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Opposers of Aragorn's reign as king threaten Boromir's life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aragorn receives some bad news from one of his councillors.

Aragorn pushed open the door to the study he shared with Boromir. It was almost a year since the destruction of the Ring and his coronation as King of Gondor and Arnor, but Aragorn didn’t think he would ever get used to the boredom that was a result of official council meetings. Today’s was a spectacular example. He had sat at the head of the table trying not to fall asleep while his councillors debated a farming dispute over land in Lebennin. He knew he should have paid more attention – as King it was his duty to see that all his people were happy. But sometimes it was hard to be interested in something with which he personally had nothing to do. The only interesting part of the meeting had come at the end, when Marin, his senior councillor, had drawn him aside…

“My Lord, I have grave tidings,” said Marin. “More rumours of unrest in the city have reached me, and I fear that this disturbance may escalate into something more dangerous.”

“Your words grieve me,” replied Aragorn. “I see no reason for the people of Minas Tirith to be unhappy, especially in this time of release from such a terrible evil.”

“These people are believed to be those who were staunch supporters of the Lord Denethor before he died,” continued Marin. “It is said that they share his views on your claim to the throne, making it out to be false, and you a usurper.”

Aragorn sighed. He knew he could not please everyone all of the time, but he had thought his claim to the kingship had been accepted by everyone. His relationship with Boromir added an extra dimension to the problem. Although Boromir was the son of Denethor, the rumours also said that he was accused of siding with Aragorn, when he should have been upholding his father’s views. Indeed, previously to the quest to destroy the Ring, Boromir had shared his father’s opinions on the resurrection of the Kings of old and Aragorn’s claim to the throne. But his experiences on his journey from Rivendell to Minas Tirith, and his new found relationship with Aragorn had shown him that these opinions were wrong, and he now supported and believed in Aragorn wholeheartedly.

Aragorn thought of all these things as he entered his study. But he wished to escape these thoughts, and there was only one person who could help him with that.

Boromir sat at his desk by the window, his back to the door, absorbed in a military report. Compared to Aragorn’s rich court attire, he was simply dressed in breeches and a loose shirt, and his hair hung down his back in a style known as the King’s Braid. Seeing this, Aragorn’s face twisted into something that was halfway between a smile and a grimace. Boromir had let his hair grow longer at Aragorn’s request. But in order to keep it out of his face while he worked, he often tied it back. Aragorn, however, preferred it to hang loose, and often said so.

Crossing the room, Aragorn gave Boromir’s braid a short tug by way of a greeting. Boromir mumbled something that sounded like a reply. Another twenty or thirty seconds passed, and then Boromir flung the paper he had been perusing on to a pile at one end of his desk.

“Finished!” he declared. Looking up, he noticed the half-scowl on Aragorn’s face. “What troubles you?” he asked, concerned.

Aragorn gave the braid another tug by way of an explanation, elaborating with the words: “it seems you have failed to abide by your King’s wishes yet again.”

Boromir laughed. “You know I would do anything to please you, my Lord,” he replied. “But if you wish such dull reports to be read thoroughly, then I must have as few distractions as possible.”

Aragorn grinned ruefully. “Ah well,” he sighed. “At least it makes you easier to control.” He demonstrated his point by laying hold of the braid once again, and pulling Boromir’s head back, allowing Aragorn to lean in and kiss him.

The kiss went on for some time, but when the two men finally drew apart, Boromir could see that Aragorn still looked worn and preoccupied. “Be serious now, dearest,” he said. “You are troubled. Will you not tell me what is the matter?”

Aragorn sighed again. “It is the same problem,” he admitted unhappily. “More rumours of unrest have reached me.” He hated telling Boromir these problems. If they had just pertained to him, Aragorn wouldn’t have minded. But Boromir was also a factor. He had not seemed affected by the rumours when Aragorn had first told him of them, but Aragorn knew that Boromir was upset by the situation and, in some small way, believed himself responsible for the disturbances affecting the city of Minas Tirith. It was nonsense of course, and for Aragorn it made the situation a lot worse.

Boromir rose from his chair, and walked over to Aragorn, who had moved to the other window to gaze out at the city. He placed a hand on Aragorn’s shoulder, drawing him into an embrace. “Do not worry,” he whispered softly. “You will solve this problem – you always do. I have the utmost confidence that whatever needs to be done, you will do it.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The situation grows worse, and Aragorn is forced to keep a secret from Boromir.

Two weeks passed. The anniversary of the destruction of the Ring was fast approaching. Although the celebrations had more or less been continuous ever since the great event itself, the city of Minas Tirith was preparing to mark the day in style. An air of excitement hung in the air. Everyone from the lowliest errand boy right up to the King was affected by it.

Aragorn smiled as he stood looking out of his study window. He could see a group of children in the sixth level of the city from his vantage-point. The party was the next day, and the children were hanging brightly coloured streamers everywhere they could reach. The whole city was awash with colour, and alive with sounds of laughter and hurrying feet.

Aragorn’s reverie was interrupted by a knock on the door. He turned away from the window, frowning. He was expecting Boromir back from an inspection of the stables any minute, but the Steward wouldn’t knock at the door of his own study. “Come,” he said. The door opened, and Marin entered. “You have news?” Aragorn asked, seeing look on his councillor’s face.

“I do, My Lord,” replied Marin gravely. “It concerns the matter we have spoken of several times in the past few weeks. Your Majesty, the disturbances amongst the population of the city are increasing. There is no open violence as yet, but only last night three fires were set in different areas of the city. One almost killed a family, but they were saved by the city guard. No one has yet claimed responsibility for them, but it is believed that they were caused by the same people who have been speaking out against you.” 

Aragorn was horrified. “How many of these people are there?” he asked.

“Only a small number, we believe,” said Marin. “And we also believe that they are confined to the city. However, we fear that they may have allies outside of Gondor. Several people have left the city over the past few weeks saying that they were taking messages or goods to other parts of the kingdom, but they have not returned. It is feared that they have in fact gone to Harad, and are in league with the Southrons.”

Aragorn cursed silently, and then turned to Marin. “Clearly this situation cannot continue,” he said. “We are on the eve of the first anniversary of our greatest triumph, and I will not let the celebration be spoiled, nor the people of my city live in fear for their lives.”

“Your Majesty must be seen to be combating the problem,” said Marin. “These disturbances are not invisible to your people. You must reassure them.”

Aragorn thought for a moment. “I will address the city tomorrow, during the festivities,” he said. “I will reassure my people, and at the same time let those who speak out against the King know that such treason will not be tolerated. Meanwhile, I shall tell Boromir of this matter. This problem concerns him, and as Steward I would have him investigate discreetly to see what he can find out about these people who oppose me.” However, when he looked up at Marin, he perceived that his senior councillor wore an uncomfortable expression.

“There is something more, of which I have not yet said anything, My Lord,” said Marin. “It concerns the Lord Boromir. Rumours of threats made against him have also reached me over the past few days. They are not made outright,” he added hastily. “But your relationship with the Steward is common knowledge. It would be foolish to make threats directly against the King, and so harming the Lord Boromir is seen as the best way to show you that your opposers are serious. And it is well known that these people also see Boromir as betraying the memory of his father by so strongly supporting you.”

“And putting him in charge of an investigation would only increase the animosity towards him,” finished Aragorn. He sighed. “You are right, Marin,” he said. “Very well. I am putting you in charge of the investigation. You may go, but please keep me informed of any further developments.”

Marin bowed and withdrew. Aragorn resumed his position by the window, but the children in the street below no longer cheered him. He knew he should be thinking about how to address the city on the morrow, but his mind was fully occupied with the quandary he now found himself in – whether to tell Boromir of the threats made against him. On the one hand, he had a right to know. However, Aragorn knew that telling him would just accentuate Boromir’s already unnecessary feelings of guilt about the whole situation. He would then demand to lead the investigation, wanting to protect Aragorn but putting himself in danger. And Aragorn knew he would never allow that. Boromir meant everything to him.

It was growing dark in the room by the time Aragorn had made his choice. He would have to tell Boromir about the fires and the threat to the people of the city – doubtless the Steward already knew about them anyway – but he would not tell him about the threats against himself. Aragorn could not bear the thought of something happening to him. Guilt at keeping such a secret from Boromir gnawed at his insides, but Aragorn thrust it aside. He had made his decision.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aragorn makes an announcement to his people on the anniversary of the destruction of the Ring.

Aragorn stood on the temporary dais that had been erected outside the city walls and surveyed the crowd. There was nowhere in Minas Tirith big enough for the whole population to congregate, so the anniversary festivities were taking place on the Pelennor.

Boromir stood next to Aragorn, offering silent yet comforting support. His hair was pulled back into its customary braid, and Aragorn’s fingers itched to untie the fastening that held it in place and let it fall forward about Boromir’s face. That, however, would have to wait until later. Right now he had to address the crowd that stood expectantly in front of him.

“People of Minas Tirith, today we celebrate the anniversary of our deliverance. It has been one year exactly since the destruction of the One Ring and the defeat of Sauron.” Cheers rang out across the plain. “On that day Gondor faced its greatest threat, and emerged victorious. However, there are two people without whose assistance we would now very probably be in the thrall of the Dark Lord. I speak, of course, of the Halflings. Please raise your glasses to Frodo and Samwise, the saviours of Middle-earth.” 

“Frodo and Samwise,” roared the crowd, accompanied by the sound of clinking glasses. All now thought that the King had finished his speech, and the festivities could begin again. Aragorn, however, remained standing, and the crowd quickly quietened down as they perceived he had more to say.

“It saddens me, on this day of happiness and rejoicing, to have to speak to you of such a serious matter,” announced Aragorn. “But speak I must. No doubt you have heard of the fires that have endangered people’s lives over the past few nights. Our thoughts and aid go out to those affected by these events. I must now say that these fires were caused by people who wish Gondor and her King ill. Some of you may have heard rumours that there are those who do not wish to be ruled by me. They uphold the views of the late Lord Denethor, and do not believe that a King has the right to reclaim the throne.” Aragorn felt Boromir stiffen slightly beside him. “I will say only this,” he continued. “These people will be discovered, and any alliances they have made with outsiders will be swiftly quelled. Such opposition will not be tolerated, and it will be stopped.”

Having now finished, Aragorn sank down into his seat. The crowd instantly broke into excited chatter. Aragorn knew they were speaking of what he had just said, but he ignored them, turning instead to Boromir. “I am sorry I had to bring up your father,” he apologised.

“Do not trouble yourself, dearest,” replied Boromir. “It is not you I am angry at, it is him. Even after all this time, I still cannot believe how strongly he opposed your claim…even though I once shared his views,” he finished, with a wry smile.

Aragorn smiled back. Then he sighed. “Is it right for a King to feel so exhausted after addressing his subjects?” he joked.

“No, you must be getting old,” said Boromir. Then, before Aragorn could retaliate, he continued on a more serious note. “I was proud of you today, Aragorn. You showed your people why a King should be ruling Gondor, and not a Steward. I have faith that you will be able to solve this problem, and from that your reign will emerge stronger than ever.”

“Thank you, Boromir,” murmured Aragorn. Guilt at the secret he was keeping from his companion rose up again in his heart, but he pushed it down, choosing instead to answer Boromir’s previous remark. “And what do you mean I’m getting old?” he protested. “I could best you in any challenge you’d care to set!”

Boromir smiled cheekily. “Would you like to prove that?” he asked, a wicked glint in his eye.

“What did you have in mind?” enquired Aragorn, with a twinkle of his own.

Boromir stood up and addressed Aragorn formally. “My Lord, I believe you have made sufficient appearance before your people for the day. There are more pressing demands on your time that must be addressed.”

“Your advice is noted and accepted,” replied Aragorn. He stood also, and the two men made their way back up into the city. By the time they had reached the citadel, Aragorn’s itchy fingers had had their way, and Boromir’s hair flowed freely over his shoulders.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A threat from persons unknown puts Aragorn in a horrible position.

Aragorn stretched and rolled over. Still half-asleep, he frowned. He shouldn’t have been able to roll over. There should have been another body in the way. Opening his eyes, Aragorn looked blearily at the empty space where Boromir should have been lying. Where was he? The sheets on that side of the bed were cold, so Aragorn deduced he must have been gone some while. Groaning, Aragorn realised it must be late. This was confirmed by the fact that the sun was not streaming through the window, which it would have been had it been the traditional time to wake up, since the window of the bedroom faced due east. As Aragorn stretched again, the rustle of paper caught his attention. It was then that he noticed that Boromir had left a note for him on his pillow.

‘Morning sleepyhead! Or should that be afternoon? Have gone to inspect the aftermath of yesterday’s celebrations. Will be back in time for lunch, if you can be bothered to rouse yourself for such an insignificant act as eating. See you later.  
Boromir.’

Smiling wryly, Aragorn climbed out of bed, pulling on a robe and crossing to the window. As Steward of Gondor, Boromir always seemed to have something to do, whether it was some kind of inspection, reading reports, or keeping the army in training. As King, all Aragorn seemed to do was attend incredibly boring councils, and be a public figure for the people of his kingdom. Aragorn knew that in reality he was much more than that, but the fact that Boromir had managed to rise at a respectable hour, even after last night’s activities, made Aragorn feel a tiny bit guilty that he hadn’t got up also and helped.

It was still at least an hour until lunch. Aragorn pulled on some clothes and went down the hall to his and Boromir’s study. He had some correspondence from his official in Amroth that needed answering. However, when he sat down at his desk, he noticed that a new letter had appeared on his pile of paperwork. Thinking it was another note from Boromir, Aragorn unfolded it, smiling and wondering what new insults Boromir had thought up to make him feel even more guilty about sleeping late. However, a quick glance at the note showed him that it was not from Boromir. The style of writing was particularly neutral, and as Aragorn perused its contents, he could see why. This letter was clearly from someone who did not want to be identified.

‘My Liege (and even though they were written down Aragorn could detect the heavy sarcasm behind the words).  
I was very impressed by your oratorical fireworks yesterday. As a standard ‘King’s address’ they worked very well. However, I feel I must inform you that they did not inspire my colleagues and I to any change of heart. I’m afraid our feelings on the subject of your monarchy are still in opposition to yours. In fact, after yesterday’s little performance, they are even more so. You will no doubt have heard vague rumours of threats against your Steward and lover. Well, it seems that it’s about time that I made these rumours a little more solid. My associates and I feel that while the Lord Boromir is present, the force that the two of you present together is not conducive to our plans. Therefore, we feel that he should be disposed of as soon as possible. It would be prudent of you, your Majesty, to get rid of him, or else we shall be forced to take more drastic action. And one more thing - do not mention your reasons to him. We are well aware that if he knew the true situation, Boromir would insist on staying to protect you, and we cannot have that. We trust that you will follow our instructions to the letter, and are eagerly awaiting the result.’

As Aragorn reached the end of the letter, he fell backwards in his chair, the piece of paper dropping from his numb fingers and fluttering to the floor. One half of his mind was amazed at the audacity of whoever written the letter, and was also partly wondering how it had gotten into his study. But the other half of his mind, and the one that was rapidly becoming the strongest, was screaming at him that Boromir was in danger.

Aragorn could not seem to rouse himself to do anything about it, however. He had small doubt that if he did, the course of action implied by the letter would be carried out. 

Aragorn was startled out of his misery by a tap on the door. Leaping out of his chair he scooped up the letter from the floor, crumpling it into his pocket even as he called out “Enter” in none too steady a voice. Marin came in, and Aragorn felt an immediate, if slight, sense of relief. After Boromir, Marin was his most trusted advisor, and if ever Aragorn needed advice it was now.

Marin, in turn, noticed immediately that something was amiss. “My Lord, what is wrong?” he asked quickly.

Aragorn explained everything, showing Marin the letter to drive home the full force of the situation. “Please help me, Marin,” he pleaded, not caring how much desperation he was showing.

Marin paused for a moment, gathering his thoughts. He looked shocked at this development, but in reality it was not entirely unexpected to him. “You are a good and strong King, Aragorn,” he began. “But you have one weak point – and that is Boromir. It is obvious to everyone who has seen you together, including most of the population of this city, how much you value each other. And this means that anyone who wants to threaten you knows that the best way to do it is through Boromir.”

“I know what you say is true,” replied Aragorn. “But what should I do?”

Marin knew that Aragorn was clinging on to a forlorn hope that there would be some way out of the situation, but there was none that he could see. “It is a hard thing for me to say, your Majesty,” he said slowly. “But you have only one choice that I can see. You must take the ‘advice’ of the letter, and send Boromir away. It is the only way to keep him safe.”

Aragorn’s shoulders sagged in defeat. “I know,” he whispered.

“There is more,” continued Marin. “This letter says that you must not inform Boromir why you are sending him away. However, there is no mission that you could send him on at this moment that could not be carried out by a lesser member of your court. Therefore you must give him a more sufficient reason to leave.”

“What are you suggesting?” asked Aragorn.

“There is only one reason powerful enough for you to wish him gone from Minas Tirith,” replied Marin.

“And what is that?” said Aragorn.

“Make him believe you don’t love him.”

Aragorn’s head snapped up. “What?!” he gasped, unable to comprehend what Marin had just said. “No, I can’t do it. I won’t do it.”

“You must,” said Marin steadily. “There is no other way. If Boromir believes you do not care for him, not only will it seem plausible for you to be removing him from your sight, but he will want to leave, to get away from the scene of his…humiliation. You must hurt him, Aragorn. Hurt him to save him.”

Aragorn clutched at the back of a chair for support. The room was spinning around him and the floor was swaying under his feet. He couldn’t do that to Boromir, no matter how great the danger. Besides, Boromir would never believe it.

But Aragorn knew that he could. And that he would make Boromir believe it. For he saw that Marin was right. There was no other way. Boromir’s life would be in great peril if he stayed in Minas Tirith, and the only way to get him to leave without telling him the truth was to cast him off, tell him the most important thing in his life was a sham. 

“All right,” whispered Aragorn.

Marin needed no more answer than that. “I shall send one of your guards to find Boromir,” he said. “I believe he is in the stables.” So saying, he exited to the room, leaving Aragorn to compose himself for the dreadful task he was about to undertake.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aragorn breaks Boromir's heart.

Aragorn paced backwards and forwards across the study, waiting for Boromir. He was terrified he wouldn’t be able to pull this off - that Boromir would know he was lying. But there was a part of him that wanted to fail, because then he wouldn’t have to say those words. “I don’t love you.” Even thinking them made Aragorn’s gut wrench. Briefly, he considered just blurting out the whole situation to Boromir, thereby keeping him in Minas Tirith. But Aragorn knew that he wouldn’t.

The rattling of the doorknob caught his attention, and he looked up to see Boromir entering the room, shutting the door behind him. At the sight of him, Aragorn’s heart leapt into his throat. Boromir had obviously come from dealing with a wilful horse in the stables, for his skin was flushed, and his shirt untucked as if he had hastily put it back on. And his hair, which must originally have been in its customary braid, had escaped from its fastening and was falling down around his face. Boromir’s whole person was in disarray, but to Aragorn he was beautiful, and he had to exert every ounce of willpower and self-control to keep from taking the Steward into his arms there and then and kissing him until he had no breath left in his body.

For a few seconds Aragorn was at a loss for words. But while his heart was in danger of being overwhelmed, his head took matters into its own hands and took charge. “Good afternoon,” Aragorn heard himself saying. “Thank you for replying to my summons so promptly.”

Boromir looked a little confused at Aragorn’s formal tone of voice, but then obviously decided that this was some sort of game, and he would play along. “Do not mention it,” he replied. “I believe there was an important matter that you wished to speak to me about?” His lips curled up in a slight smirk, which quickly died when Aragorn did not return it.

“That is correct,” said Aragorn. He tried desperately to think of a tactful way to open the subject, but no words of inspiration sprang to his mind. His misery increased ten-fold when he realised he would have to be painfully blunt. He swallowed, turning away from Boromir as he did so. He could not let Boromir see how much it cost him to say the next words. “What I wish to say is…I find I have grown tired of your presence,” he threw back over his shoulder, keeping his voice as cold as he possibly could.

A confused silence greeted his words. Finally, Boromir answered. “What?” he whispered, his voice weakened by shock and disbelief. Another pause. “But you love me,” he continued, his voice barely audible. “How can you say such a thing, even in jest?”

“Love you?” Aragorn let out a hard laugh. “I do not love you. I may have said the word a few times, but I needed to tell you something to keep you happy. I do not jest, Boromir, son of Denethor. You were nothing more than a convenience. Someone to keep my bed warm. But I am bored of you now. There is not really the need for a Steward for the kingdom of Gondor. There are plenty of officials in my court who could do your job just as easily as you.” Aragorn hated himself more with every word he spoke. But he knew he had to keep up the pretence, and so he had to let Boromir see he was serious. So turned round to face the other man again, dreading what he would see. 

What he saw in Boromir’s face, however, dealt him a blow that was almost physical in its force. Aragorn had expected to see anger, but instead utter despair was written across it. Aragorn had never expected to see someone’s heart breaking in front of his very eyes, but he knew he was seeing it now. He would have preferred anger. He would have preferred Boromir to leap across the room and wrap his hands around his throat. He would have preferred anything to seeing such defeat. He could see that Boromir was struggling to hold himself together. He almost succeeded, with the sole exception of a single tear that trickled down his cheek. At the sight of that, Aragorn felt his own heart break. Or to be more accurate, shatter into a thousand pieces. He longed to leap across the room himself, and gather Boromir into his arms and tell him that the whole thing was a lie – that it was indeed a horrible jest.

But he couldn’t. His body felt numb, and his feet felt glued to the floor. All Aragorn could do was complete his terrible task and watch as Boromir’s world crashed down around him. “That is all I have to say,” he finished, the cold and haughty tone of his voice still in place even though his heart and mind were both protesting vehemently. “You may go.”

Boromir’s gaze was directed at the floor. “As you wish,” he replied quietly, although his voice shook slightly. Turning slowly away, he left the room.

As the door closed behind Boromir, Aragorn’s whole body sagged, and he crumpled slowly to the floor. Tears streamed silently down his face. Blindly, he reached out his hand, groping for something that was no longer there. “Boromir,” he whispered. “I am sorry.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boromir tries to deal with what has happened.

Boromir made it precisely ten-and-a-half strides down the hall before his legs decided they couldn’t carry him anymore. In the middle of the eleventh stride he stumbled, falling against the wall. Leaning against it for support, he stared sightlessly out of the window opposite him. He knew he should be feeling some sort of emotion – either raging fury or, perhaps more obviously, howling despair. But he felt nothing. Nothing at all. There was an empty space inside him where his heart should have been. It didn’t even feel like his heart had been broken, because if it had, there would have been pain. It was as if someone had simply clicked their fingers and made his heart disappear.

Someone.

Aragorn.

Even that thought failed to ignite any emotion.

Somewhere deep inside himself, Boromir knew that this emptiness was just a shield for his real emotions. But they were either buried too deep, or Boromir had far more control over them than he thought, because there was not a sign of them on either his outside or his inside.

How long he stood there, he did not know. Afterwards he reflected that he was lucky that no one had come along at that moment, for he surely would have been taken to the Houses of Healing in an instant. He did not even think he had been listening for sounds inside the room he had just left – either of victory or pursuit. He had just stood there because he could not think of anything else to do.

But eventually, and as if automatically, Boromir pushed himself away from the wall and continued on down the corridor. His thoughts had taken on an almost mechanical quality – telling him what to do, and forcing his body to do it. And at the moment they were telling him that he had to obey Aragorn’s last command. “You may go.” And go he would. He would leave Minas Tirith. It was obvious that he was not needed or wanted in the city. In fact he would probably leave Gondor altogether. There would be nowhere he could go within the kingdom without rumour and lies following him. But there his thoughts halted. He had no idea where he would go, or what he would do when he got there. But for the moment, leaving Minas Tirith was enough. And for that he would need possessions and provisions.

Boromir’s feet led him on down the corridor and around the corner to his bedchamber. But as soon as he opened the door he knew it had been a futile exercise. For his chamber was as bare as if it have never been used. Which, indeed, it almost never had. For Boromir had spent most of his nights, and some days too, in Aragorn’s chamber, and so all of his things were there. Boromir sighed. He would have to retrace his steps.

A few moments later, Boromir stood outside the door to Aragorn’s chamber. For a few seconds he listened, trying to detect if anyone were within. No noise reached his ears, so he tentatively pushed the door open. 

He had been correct in his assumption – the room was empty…of people. However, instead it was full of signs of life – his life and Aragorn’s. Clothes hurriedly discarded the night before were still strewn over floor and furniture. A book Boromir had been reading lay open on the windowsill. Through the door into the dressing room could be seen a pile of his own clean clothing, brought there by his valet – it was well known that Boromir rarely used his own room. And on the pillows of the bed still lay the note he had left for Aragorn that morning.

Carelessly, Boromir caught up the note, intending to throw it away. But unwittingly, he found himself reading it.

‘Morning sleepyhead! Or should that be afternoon? Have gone to inspect the aftermath of yesterday’s celebrations. Will be back in time for lunch, if you can be bothered to rouse yourself for such an insignificant act as eating. See you later.  
Boromir.’

With shocking clarity, the full force of what had happened crashed down on Boromir like the roof had suddenly caved in. Shaking violently, he sank down on to the bed, still clutching the note. ‘How could it be,’ he thought, ‘that only a few short hours ago I could write such a note as this, full of familiarity and humour, and yet now it means nothing? That lunch will never happen now. And what care I for the celebrations of Gondor?’

The howling misery that Boromir knew he should have been feeling; had been subconsciously keeping in check, forced its way to the surface, and he collapsed face down on to the blankets. A familiar scent washed over him – that of Aragorn, and to some extent, himself. Boromir could not help but inhale deeply, and the sweet familiarity of that scent brought tears to his eyes. He wept then, sobs wracking his body. He wept for what he had lost and for what he would never now have. He wept for how foolish he had been, and how deceived he had been in his lover. For a long while he did not move, and the bedclothes grew damp from his tears.

A noise outside the door made him draw in his breath sharply. He sat bolt upright on the bed, hastily wiping away the traces of his sobbing. It suddenly occurred to him how awful it would be to be found in such a position, especially if the person who discovered him was Aragorn. But the noise passed - obviously a servant on an errand, not intending to enter the King’s room at all. However, Boromir took notice of the warning. He rose from the bed and went into the dressing room. Pulling a couple of blankets from the closet, he laid them on the table and proceeded to toss various belongings on top of them, including the pile of clean clothes, various other articles from the chest of drawers, and his purse. Drawing the corners of the blankets together, he made the whole lot into a bundle.

As he shouldered the bundle, Boromir looked around the dressing room and then the bedchamber. Both looked a lot barer without his things strewn about, and for a brief moment he considered what Aragorn would think when he returned. But those thoughts threatened to overwhelm him again and so, after one final longing look around he departed the room.

Boromir knew he would need certain other things before he could leave Minas Tirith – first and foremost his horse and his weapons, and with that in mind, he headed for the stables. As he reached a junction in the corridor, he looked left and noticed a bustle of activity at the door of his and…no, he corrected himself – it was just Aragorn’s study now. He suddenly felt certain that something was wrong with Aragorn, and every fibre of his being screamed at him to go and help. But instead he resolutely turned to the right, away from the commotion. He wasn’t noticed, and reaching the end of the corridor he descended the staircase and passed from sight.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aragorn delivers himself into the hands of his enemies.

Aragorn swam back to consciousness. All around him was blackness. Vague recollections presented him with a selection of sounds – startled gasps, loud calls, and hurrying footsteps. But he couldn’t really remember anything before the comforting darkness that now surrounded him. He tried to open his eyes, thinking that he might see something that would aid his memory. However, even that simple action seemed to take too much effort, and so Aragorn had to content himself with remaining in the darkness. But now a face floated there, instantly recognisable against the background mass of his confusion.

“Boromir,” Aragorn murmured, putting a name to the face.

“The Lord Boromir is not here,” replied a voice.

At those words, something snapped into place in Aragorn’s mind, and his eyes flew open. “Boromir!” he cried, struggling to sit up. A restraining hand was placed on his shoulder, pushing him back down. Turning his head, Aragorn saw that Marin sat by his bedside. There was a cold, hard look on the councillor’s face that slightly confused Aragorn, but he was in no condition to ponder its meaning. He was fully occupied with thoughts of Boromir. “What have I done?” he said miserably.

“What was necessary,” replied Marin, and Aragorn now noticed that his voice had the same steely quality as the expression on his face.

“Marin, what is wrong? What has happened?” he asked. “Apart from the obvious, of course,” he finished bitterly.

“Wrong? Nothing is wrong, My Liege,” said the councillor. “In fact, you could say that everything has worked out beautifully.”

It was with a start that Aragorn noticed the heavy sarcasm placed on the words ‘My Liege’. A horrible suspicion sprang to life in his mind. “What do you mean, everything has worked out beautifully?” he said. 

“I must congratulate you on what seems to have been a superb performance,” Marin continued. “I had my doubts that you would be able to pull it off. But it seems that you were very convincing. At least, Boromir appears to have believed you. And by all current appearances, it seems that you cannot do without him.”

“What do you mean?” Aragorn asked again.

“Why, simply that you have been unconscious for two days,” said Marin, with a slight smile. “If this is the effect that his leaving has on you, then his absence will make my task a lot easier than I ever imagined.”

The suspicion in Aragorn’s mind suddenly solidified with startling clarity. “Then it was you!” he said. 

“If by that you mean that it was me who left you that little note, then you are correct,” replied Marin. “As you will no doubt remember, I expressed my opinion that the Lord Boromir would provide an extreme hindrance to our plans.”

“And what are your plans?” enquired Aragorn grimly. “They must involve me, otherwise you would have got rid of me as well as Boromir, and by the more drastic means you spoke of in the letter.”

“Correct again, your Majesty,” said Marin. “You have probably worked out by now that I am one of those people who uphold the views of the late Lord Denethor. However, my associates and I could not simply do away with the King and take over the kingdom, or indeed even the city. There are far too few of us to make that viable. We have strong allies, but your supporters would have overthrown us long before they could ever arrive. Therefore, we decided that the best way to have things run our way was to do it through you, instead of against you.”

“Through me?” said Aragorn, trying to sit up again, and this time succeeding. “But you must know that I will never agree to that.”

“Oh, but you will,” said Marin, with a malicious smile. “We may have used the more creative option to get rid of your lover, but the more drastic course of action will always remain in reserve. Boromir may have left Minas Tirith, but there are enough of us to at least have him watched and followed constantly. You will follow our instructions, or your recent performance will have all been in vain.

Aragorn’s shoulders sagged, and a wave of misery and defeat rolled over him. He was cornered. He had no way to know if Marin was telling the truth about having Boromir spied upon, or if indeed Boromir was even still alive, but he knew he would not take the risk. If it were just himself involved, he would have quelled this rebellion straight away, but he would never put Boromir in danger.

But now there was no one to aid him. Marin’s ‘creative option’ had been completely successful. It was true that Boromir had presented an insurmountable obstacle to his plans, and by sending him away, Aragorn had unwittingly delivered himself into the hands of someone he had trusted almost as much as the Steward. And he had no way of knowing who Marin’s associates were, and so there was no way he could eliminate the threat.

“All right,” Aragorn said quietly. “Tell me what you want me to do.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On a visit to the north-country, Aragorn decides to stop at a familiar resting place.

Aragorn sat straight and tall on his horse, peering ahead into the gathering darkness. It was nearly time to halt for the night, but up ahead he thought he could descry a group of twinkling lights nestled against the side of a hill. The place was familiar to him, and for the first time in four months he felt a smile twitch at his lips.

Aragorn was on his way north with his entourage to visit Fornost, the former capital of the North-kingdom that was now being resurrected and renovated so it could fulfil its function once more. The work had been going on for eight months now but, with so much to take care of in Gondor, Aragorn had not been able to visit Fornost in person to inspect the progress being made. Until now. The most inopportune time imaginable. But of course it had not been his idea. No, it was Marin who had made this decision, as he did every other one that affected the kingdoms of Gondor and Arnor, and Aragorn’s reign over them as King. 

Aragorn knew very well why it was that he was taking this trip now. Over the past four months the situation in Gondor had become unbearable. Rumour and confusion abounded amongst the people of that land. Why, they asked, was Minas Tirith overrun with Southrons? They were a cruel race, and they did not bring any benefits to the city as far as the people could see. Indeed, they seemed intent on making life as miserable as possible: starting fights, stealing, and generally acting like they owned the place. And the King, instead of preventing them from coming, actually welcomed them! The change in their ruler was apparent to everybody. He was as cold and harsh now as the Southrons he had allied himself with. And the disappearance of the Lord Boromir had not gone unnoticed either. It was whispered that he had been disposed of because he was in opposition to the King’s plans. Which, with what seemed like cruel irony to Aragorn, was not too far from the truth.

And now the King had left, leaving one of his councillors in charge. Aragorn knew the people would see it as the final betrayal, the King departing when they were under such oppression from outsiders, even though he probably would not have done a thing about it. ‘And I wouldn’t,’ Aragorn thought miserably. ‘I wouldn’t have been able to do a thing about it.’

But now, seeing those twinkling lights in the distance, Aragorn felt something akin to peace wash over him. But it was tinged with sadness, for Aragorn knew it to be a superficial feeling. Yonder was a place that he had spent much time in during his wanderings as a Ranger. The village of Bree. During that time he had wanted nothing more than to escape from that life and fulfil his destiny to become King and restore harmony to Middle-earth. And now, ironically, he desperately wished he could go back to that uncomplicated, if wearying, existence. But he knew that he couldn’t, and that his happiness on seeing this place was limited. He was determined, however, to preserve the feeling for as long as he could. 

Abruptly, Aragorn reigned in his horse. His guard came to a confused and messy halt around him, all of them eyeing him somewhat suspiciously. It was clear to Aragorn that the members of his bodyguard were all in the pay of Marin, but that did not mean they would not protect him. On the contrary, Marin’s plans depended on him staying alive, at least for the present.

Before long, the sound of hooves from behind warned Aragorn of the approach of Marin. He smiled again, but this time grimly. He knew that Marin would not be amused by the delay. He was proved correct when the councillor’s horse broke through the ring of guards and pulled up right next to Aragorn’s mount. 

“What is the meaning of this?” he hissed angrily.

Aragorn ignored him, raising his voice to address his whole entourage. “We will halt there tonight,” he announced, pointing towards Bree. “It is long since many of you slept in proper beds, and although we are now not far from Fornost, I see no sense in wasting this opportunity.” Aragorn knew that this act of kingship was fooling nobody – most of the people he was addressing knew that he was not really the one in charge here. Seeing that Marin was about to speak he continued, but in a tone of voice that only the councillor could hear. “I will brook no refusal in this.” Aragorn refused to ask permission. He was determined that for once he would be the one doing the telling. And he knew that he had won when he saw Marin shut his mouth and incline his head slightly. However, it was but a shallow victory, one that would mean little in the long run.

Half-an-hour later they had reached Bree, the horses had been stabled, and Aragorn was standing in front of the Prancing Pony inn. Taking a deep breath, he stepped over the threshold, instantly struck by the familiarity of the place. However, he could not fail to notice the cold stares he was getting from some of the customers – even this far north his reputation was sullied; by yet more agents of Marin, Aragorn did not doubt. But he did his best to ignore them, instead gazing around at the interior of the inn. Everything was as he remembered it – the roaring fire, the crowds of laughing men and hobbits. Even the landlord Barliman Butterbur hadn’t changed a bit. And, he thought wryly, it seems as if even I am still here. For, glancing over at the dark corner where he had been wont to sit, Aragorn perceived that his place had been filled by yet another scruffy stranger sitting quietly behind his drink, his face overshadowed by his hood.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boromir is surprised by a visitor to Bree.

Boromir sat staring at his pint of ale, contemplating drinking it but knowing he wouldn’t. It was the same every time he came here, but he had fooled himself into thinking that having it on the table provided some sort of barrier between himself and the world. Of course, it was not this that really stopped people talking to him – it was the fact that they simply never talked to strangers. At least, not the ones who so obviously did not want to be spoken to. But nonetheless Boromir felt somewhat at ease here. Here he could preserve his anonymity – something he would never have been able to do had he stayed in Gondor, or even in Rohan. Rumour and questions would have followed him everywhere had he remained in the south. So he had travelled slowly north, seeking to leave behind all reminders of his former life.

And he had ended up in Bree. A place he had heard tales of from the hobbits during the Quest of the Ring. For them a place of dread, but also a place of hope. For it was here that they had met Strider, a friend of Gandalf’s who had proved a true companion over the following months, and who had turned out to be Aragorn, heir of Isildur, and true King of Gondor and Arnor. Boromir knew that he was only bringing more pain on himself by coming here, but he had found himself unable to completely sever all links with the past. So he had come to Bree, although he did not spend all of his time there. He had taken to wandering the wild, shunning company for most of the time. Several times he had found himself on the borders of the Shire, and had been tempted to visit his hobbit friends. But the thought of telling them of the change in Aragorn always made him turn away, although doubtless they had heard of the King’s new found cruelty, if only in rumour.

The lifestyle had taken its toll on him. He had sold his horse for much needed funds on reaching Bree, so all his wandering had been done on foot. So whereas before he had been somewhat broad of frame and sturdily built, he was now leaner and thinner – more like Aragorn if he had but known. His clothes were worn and frayed, his cloak patched and dirty from sleeping on the ground. And his hair straggled over his shoulders, left long not now by the request of a loved one, but because he simply could not be bothered to do anything about it. And he had stopped tying it back in a braid as he had been used to do, preferring to let it hang loose - to hide his face, as he told himself.

At that moment the door to the inn opened, and a group of people entered. Boromir did not look up to see who had arrived – doubtless it was just another group of Breelanders looking for a few pints of ale and some talk and laughter. He simply wrapped his cloak more tightly around himself to ward off the cold draught from outside, and went back to contemplating his glass. So he did not notice the sudden changes that came over the small tavern; the expressions of surprise and disdain that appeared on most peoples’ faces, the suddenly flustered manner of the landlord Barliman Butterbur, or even the almost complete hush that descended at the entrance of this particular group of people. The silence lasted for about five seconds before it was broken.

“Landlord!” The word was rapped out. “His Majesty King Elessar is travelling to Fornost, and wishes to stay here tonight before continuing his journey. Have you suitable accommodations?”

Boromir’s head snapped up. Surely he couldn’t have heard correctly…could he? But turning to look towards the door, he saw that it was true. Aragorn was here. At the sight of him, Boromir’s breath caught in his throat. Standing in the firelight, Aragorn looked as tall and noble as Boromir remembered him. He seemed every inch the royal leader of Middle-earth. But Boromir could also see that he looked tired and wan. His face was pale, and he had lost weight. It had only been a few months since Boromir had seen him, but Aragorn was changed. Almost Boromir rose from his seat and went across to him, wanting to comfort him, to put a smile back on that grim face. Then with a start, he remembered why it was that he was sitting here while Aragorn was standing across the room surrounded by his guards and officials. Abruptly, his face clouded over and he made as if to turn back to his drink.

But he was too late. As if bored with Butterbur’s flustered ministrations, Aragorn had turned away and was surveying the room. In that instant his eyes met Boromir’s, and Boromir could see that for a split second they widened with shock and…something else? But before he had a chance to identify that second emotion, it disappeared, and the slightly bored, cold stare returned. It was as if shutters had slammed down behind Aragorn’s eyes, blocking off all emotion from the outside world. Refocusing, Boromir realised that Marin, the King’s senior councillor, had appeared beside Aragorn. The expression on Marin’s face was one of pure malice. It was only there for a flickering second, and then the councillor’s calm, unruffled exterior was back in place, but in that instant, Boromir saw that something was dreadfully wrong. 

A sudden suspicion leapt into his mind. It had no definite form, but it told him that everything was not as it seemed. The way Aragorn had immediately clamped down on his emotion as soon as Marin had appeared suggested that the councillor had some sort influence over the King. Boromir knew that Aragorn had seen Marin as his most trusted advisor after himself, but the expression on Marin’s face seconds before illustrated that this influence had become something much more sinister.

From that vague notion, Boromir’s mind took a running jump into the territory of his heart. He knew it was a foolish hope to entertain, but what if Marin’s influence over Aragorn even extended to his relationship with Boromir? What if everything Aragorn had said to him at their last meeting was a lie? ‘But why?’ a voice inside him whispered. ‘What have Marin’s plans, whatever they may be, got to do with you?’ But that was the point, Boromir suddenly realised. Marin’s plans didn’t have anything to do with him – that was why he had been gotten out of the way. ‘But,’ whispered the traitorous little voice again, ‘there are much easier ways to get rid of someone. Killing them, for instance.’ Boromir frowned. That was right. Surely having him alive made him some sort of threat to Marin, even if he was at the other end of the kingdom. Unable to fathom a reason for such a course of action, Boromir sighed. 

It was then that he noticed Aragorn being hustled out of the tavern by his guards. His whole thought process had only taken a few seconds, but Marin had obviously decided that the current situation was unacceptable. Gone was the chance for Boromir to deduce anything more from the King and his councillor. 

One thing he knew for certain, however, was that he was putting himself in danger by remaining here. The fact that Marin hadn’t killed him months ago provided some little reassurance, but Boromir knew he shouldn’t take the risk that the councillor might suddenly change his mind.

But he knew that he couldn’t leave it there. He had to find out what was going on, and resolve the confusion in his heart once and for all. And to do that he would have to follow Aragorn and his entourage to Fornost. But right at this moment, Boromir knew he needed to concentrate on staying alive. He rose from his chair, and walked across to the door. Opening it slightly, he peered out to make sure there were no nasty surprises waiting for him. Satisfied it was safe, he opened the door further, and slipped out into the night.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boromir follows the king to Fornost, and meets a friend who enlightens him as to the truth.

Boromir sank down into the shade of some trees. The day was warm, and he welcomed the momentary coolness. Before him, about half-a-mile distant, rose the walls of Fornost, capital of the North-kingdom. They looked newly repaired, and Boromir knew his only way to enter the city was through the main gates.

He had followed the King’s company as closely as he could, but even though they had travelled at a relatively slow pace, they were still on horseback, whereas Boromir was walking. Still, he knew their destination, and it was not imperative that he arrive there immediately after them. Nevertheless, looking at the walls of Fornost, Boromir calculated that Aragorn had to have arrived there at least two days earlier, if not more.

Although he had not been able to afford a horse in order to keep up with the King and his company, Boromir had invested in some new clothes before leaving Bree. Having to enter the city by the main gate meant he wanted to stay as inconspicuous as possible, and his weatherworn apparel of the last few months was not conducive to such a goal. Such a scruffy stranger would certainly be halted and questioned, especially if Marin’s influence had spread this far north. So now, although he still wore his old boots and breeches, he had on a clean shirt, and a new cloak was slung over his shoulders. He had also bound his hair back again, as he was wont to do when doing his Steward’s duties in Minas Tirith. Instincts honed over the past few months told him that letting his hair hang loose would hide his face, but he knew he had to appear as respectable as possible. Boromir hoped that as long as he kept his head down and didn’t draw attention to himself, he wouldn’t be recognised.

As he drew nearer to the city, Boromir was dismayed to see numerous people passing in and out of the gate. But these people did not look like friends of the Reunited Kingdom. Indeed, most of Arnor’s allies this far north were to be found far to the east, on the other side of the Misty Mountains and Mirkwood, in the settlements of Dale and Esgaroth. No, these visitors to Fornost looked like Dunlendings from Dunland to the south. They were an unfriendly race, and resented the resurrection of the King, much as the Haradrim to the south of Gondor did. It made Boromir uneasy to think that such men were freely admitted to the greatest city of the North-kingdom. He had heard rumours that Minas Tirith was being overrun by Southrons, and his bile had risen at thinking of such a fair city being dirtied by such men. But seeing it here, firsthand, Boromir could appreciate just what changes must have been effected to allow such a thing to happen. ‘Marin’s influence must be great indeed…or else Aragorn’s cruelty extends a lot further than his own personal life,’ he thought. But he did not wish to entertain such ideas, so he cast them aside, concentrating on how to get inside the walls of Fornost.

As it turned out, however, the presence of the Dunlendings aided Boromir in his task, for many of them had been employed in the city. As Boromir approached the gate, he could see that the guard there was made up almost entirely of these northerners, none of whom gave him a second glance. To them he was just another commoner attracted to Fornost by opportunity, not the virtually exiled former Steward and lover to the current King.

Once through the gate, Boromir immediately headed for the keep that towered above every other building. Although it was still in disrepair, he guessed that, as the heart of Fornost, it was the most likely place from which to start looking for the King’s accommodation. However, he did not get very far…  
“Boromir?!” said a voice full of question and surprise.

Boromir swung around, his hand already on his sword-hilt, cursing that he had not been more careful to keep out of sight. But when he saw who it was, his hand dropped back to his side and his face broke into a smile as he recognised Caern, the overseer and friend that Aragorn had sent to supervise the rejuvenation of Fornost, so many months ago.

“Caern!” he said, with relief. “It is good to see you, a friendly face amongst so many hostile ones.”  
“Boromir,” Caern repeated. “What are you doing here?”

Boromir’s face clouded over. “That I cannot tell you,” he replied.

“Is it something to do with the King, and his…councillor?” asked Caern.

The expression on Boromir’s face switched to one of surprise, and then one of rueful relief. “You show an uncanny ability to see into the hearts and minds of men,” he said.

Caern smiled wryly. “There is nothing uncanny about my deduction,” he said. “I have suffered at the hands of Marin, as have you, it seems. Boromir, rumours are rife about your sudden disappearance,” he continued. “That, and the changes in King Elessar’s method of rule, have combined to make him very unpopular, even here in the north. But it is not his fault. Marin exerts a very strong influence over the King. He holds only one card, but it is powerful enough to make Elessar do his bidding.”

“Me,” Boromir whispered. Suddenly he understood why Marin had kept him alive.

“Yes,” agreed Caern. “Marin knew that you would be too great an obstacle to his plans, so he had to get rid of you. But he also knew that he could use you as a pawn to keep the King under control. Unless Elessar does what Marin tells him, Marin will have you killed.”

Boromir’s mind reeled. He had already worked it out for himself, but hearing the words spoken aloud was like a punch in the gut. “He should have told me,” he murmured. Then he looked up at Caern. “How do you know all this?” he asked.

“When the King arrived here, I could see immediately that something was wrong,” replied Caern. “He seemed agitated, but at the same time somehow spiritless – not at all the man I knew in Minas Tirith. So I went up to his rooms to see if there was anything I could do…and I overheard a conversation between him and Marin. It told me everything that I…and you…needed to know.”

Boromir nodded. “I must get to him,” he said grimly. “Marin must be stopped.”

“I agree,” said Caern. “And I believe the need is urgent. Marin is currently using the King to put his plans into action, but soon his opinion that the monarchy is surplus to requirements will come to the forefront. Killing the King previously would have put his plans, as well as himself, in jeopardy. But he now has sufficient allies in both Fornost and Minas Tirith to support him once Elessar is dead. Fornost is filling with Dunlendings, as you must have noticed. As soon as word arrived that the King was coming here, they began to flood in. Although I was put in charge here by Elessar months ago, my authority is now nominal at best. It is allies of Marin who really run Fornost now, and there was nothing I could do to stop this invasion of outsiders. And they will support Marin wholeheartedly when he seizes power. Time is of the essence,” he finished, little guessing just how right he was. “Come, I will take you to their lodgings.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aragorn and Boromir are reunited, but events conspire against them.

Aragorn was pacing again. It was an activity he seemed to have been engaged in for a large proportion of the last three days, ever since he had arrived at Fornost. His agitation was extreme. Seeing Boromir like that at Bree – so unexpectedly – had shaken him to his very core. He wanted desperately to believe that he hadn’t done anything to alert Boromir to the fact that something was wrong, but he knew it was a foolish hope. In that split second when they had stared at each other across the crowded tavern, Aragorn knew that his emotions had been written all over his face. He also knew that they had disappeared the moment he had been aware of Marin’s presence beside him. If that didn't tell Boromir that something was amiss, then nothing would.

And Aragorn knew that, because of that single second of carelessness on his part, Boromir was now in certain danger. For he knew that the other man would come after him, to try and find out what was wrong. But Aragorn knew that if he did find out, then Marin would not be pleased.

Aragorn was no fool. He knew that his own life was in danger at least as much as Boromir’s. He was well aware that he was outliving his usefulness as Marin’s pawn, and that soon Marin would have no more need for him. But Aragorn could take care of himself. It was Boromir, in his ignorance, who needed to be kept safe. As much as he felt that something wasn’t right, he had no real idea what he would get himself into by coming to Fornost.

At that moment, Aragorn heard the door open behind him. Knowing it would be Marin, come to berate him again for his carelessness, he turned around slowly, his face wearing a resigned expression. But it was not the councillor who stood before him. It was Boromir.

Aragorn’s first coherent thought was that, seen in daylight instead of in a dingy tavern, he looked…different. Leaner, muscles more defined, skin weatherworn. That, coupled with his clean but coarse shirt, simple green cloak, and worn leather breeches and boots made him look like a man of the wild – like a Ranger, truth be known. His only concession to his former life was that his hair was bound up in a King’s braid. Aragorn felt the familiar momentary flash of amused irritation that Boromir did not let his hair hang loose, but it disappeared as he suddenly realised the seriousness of the situation.

However, before Aragorn could say a single word, Boromir held up a hand to silence him. “I know,” he said simply.

Different reactions warred with each other in Aragorn’s mind: denial, pretence, amazement, relief. But he could not seem to express any of them. In the end he settled for a question. “How?” he asked.

“Caern,” replied Boromir. He stared at Aragorn for a few moments, taking in the shock and pain that contorted his features. “You should have told me,” he finished quietly, his voice filled with sorrow, and a little rejection.

Aragorn opened his mouth to defend himself, to protest that he had only been trying to keep Boromir safe, that there was nothing else he could have done, but the words were cut off by the re-opening of the door.

“Well, well,” said a sardonic voice. “It seems that the cruelly separated lovers have finally been reunited.” It was Marin. “Actually, I’m quite pleased,” he continued, giving neither Aragorn nor Boromir time to respond. “I find that my plans have very nearly come to fruition, and therefore I no longer have need of a ‘King’ to hide behind. Your Majesty, I believe your reign is at an end.”

So saying, Marin withdrew a dagger from somewhere within his robes. Aragorn was unarmed; Boromir’s hand immediately went to his sword hilt. But although he managed unsheathe it, there was no time to raise his weapon before Marin struck. But not at Aragorn.

Quick as lightning, Marin plunged the dagger deep into Boromir’s chest, withdrawing it again almost as fast. Boromir staggered backwards, his sword dropping from his hand, a red stain blossoming on the front of his shirt. Briefly he looked down at the wound, but then he raised his eyes again. They were filled with confusion, as if he couldn’t quite understand what had happened.

“No!” cried Aragorn. He made to leap across the room towards Boromir, but his progress was impeded by the sight of a now red dagger being waved in front of him. All he could do was watch in horror as Boromir stumbled against the wall, and then slid to the floor.

Marin tutted. “So sad, watching a loved one die in front of your very eyes, and not being able to do a thing about it,” he said. But his voice, instead of sounding sorrowful, was filled with malice. “But don’t worry, My Liege,” he continued, addressing Aragorn. “You won’t be parted from him for long.” And he laughed - a high, cold, cruel laugh.

That laugh jerked Aragorn out of his horrified trance. He was suddenly overcome with rage, like a red fog descending in front of his eyes. Abruptly, he jumped sideways, away from Marin, and snatched up Boromir’s fallen sword from the floor. Without even pausing to think, he swung back around. There was the clash of metal on metal, and suddenly Marin’s dagger was spinning away through the air, coming to rest with a clatter in the farthest corner of the room. For a brief moment, Aragorn stopped to consider how wonderful it felt to hold a weapon again, how comforting the feel of a sword hilt in his hand was.

But all that was pushed aside when he raised his eyes to contemplate Marin. As he did so a grim smile twisted his features. For it was now the councillor’s turn to look shocked and horrified. Plainly he had not expected Aragorn to possess enough spirit to provoke any sort of retaliation. He had obviously thought that this final horrific act would break the King, and make him easy to dispose of. But he had been wrong. For it was now he who had a weapon pointed at him.

“Well?” asked Aragorn. His voice, although quiet, seethed with rage and venom.

Marin opened and closed his mouth several times. Aragorn could not tell if he were trying to say something, or if he was simply gulping for air. His former bravado was completely gone, and he was now a shaking wreck.

“Nothing to say?” said Aragorn mockingly. “Oh well, never mind. I think I’ve heard quite enough from you anyway.” So saying, he advanced on Marin until the point of his sword was at the other man’s throat.  
But so intent was he on his revenge that Aragorn had not even noticed that someone else had entered the room.

“My Lord, no!” cried a voice. And then a hand was on his arm, forcing him to lower his weapon. Looking around, Aragorn saw that it was Caern. He struggled against the overseer’s restraining hand, wanting desperately to finish the job, to give Marin exactly what he deserved.

“No,” repeated Caern. “My Lord, you cannot do this.”

“And why not?” enquired Aragorn icily.

“Because it is not right,” replied Caern. “You cannot kill an unarmed man in cold blood. You would not be able to live with yourself afterwards, and you know it. There has been enough bloodshed,” he finished softly.

Aragorn’s shoulders sagged. “You are right,” he said wearily. Casting one last loathing look at Marin, he gave up the sword to Caern, his fury and rage melting away as if by magic. He would have watched as Caern dealt with Marin, but a sudden, wracking cough from the other side of the room made him whirl around. “Boromir!” he cried.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marin's final act has terrible consequences.

“Boromir!”

The cry rent the air. Aragorn sprang across the room, falling to his knees at Boromir’s side. Leaning over, he gathered Boromir up in his arms. His tunic was instantly stained red, but he didn’t notice. “Don’t worry, dearest,” he whispered. “Everything will be all right.” He didn’t notice the sorrowful look Caern gave him, or the malicious and triumphant smile on Marin’s lips as the two of them left the room. His whole focus was on the man in his arms.

Boromir coughed again and then smiled weakly. “We both know that’s not the truth,” he replied. “No more lies, no more pretence. Please.”

Guilt washed over Aragorn as he realised to what Boromir was referring. “Oh Boromir, I am so sorry. So sorry.” He repeated the phrase over and over like a mantra.

“Sssh, love. It’s all right, I know,” interrupted Boromir. “I know you were only trying to keep me safe, and I thank you for it. I think some part of me always knew it wasn’t true, but I just didn’t want to admit it. I was too scared of being hurt. It was easier to cut myself off, to pretend that I didn’t care…” Boromir was cut off by another wracking cough, and a spasm of pain twisted his face. When the coughing died, it was replaced by a look of utter weariness. “So tired,” he murmured. His eyelids fluttered as he fought to remain conscious for a little longer.

“No!” said Aragorn roughly. He held Boromir even tighter to him. “You can’t leave me now, not when we are finally together again. I won’t let you.”

“Can’t…fight…it,” replied Boromir. His breathing had become laboured, and the effort of speaking seemed to visibly weaken him. “Nothing…we can…do.” His eyelids fluttered again, and his gaze seemed unfocused.  
Aragorn said nothing, but the tears poured down his cheeks as he looked down at his lover. There was silence for several minutes. Boromir seemed to be slipping away, and Aragorn felt a black despair settle over him. However, as he watched, the look of pain and weariness on Boromir’s face was replaced by one of peace, and seeing that, Aragorn felt something like peace wash over him too, although the tears continued to fall. He closed his eyes, and sighed, his breath catching in his throat.

“Don’t cry, love,” said Boromir suddenly.

Aragorn opened his eyes and looked down at him, noting how pale his skin was, and the harshness of his breathing. “You may as well tell a hobbit not to eat,” he replied with a weak smile.

Boromir chuckled. At least, he tried to, but the action quickly turned into another coughing fit. Aragorn was alarmed to see that a trickle of blood escaped his lips, but he did not let his fear show, concentrating instead on soothing Boromir, absentmindedly brushing a few strands of his hair off his slick skin. But that simple action seemed to momentarily bring Boromir back to himself. “Take it out,” he rasped.

Aragorn was confused. “Take what out?” he asked.

“The cord,” Boromir replied simply.

Suddenly Aragorn understood. Boromir meant the cord fastening his hair, most of which had already escaped its confining braid. Gently Aragorn lifted Boromir’s head, unwinding the cord and tossing it to one side. Then he ran his fingers through Boromir’s damp hair, fanning it out over his shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” said Boromir brokenly, turning his head slightly to indicate his hair. “It was such a stupid thing to argue over.”

If the situation hadn’t been so serious, Aragorn would have laughed. Instead, fresh tears sprang into his eyes. “Nonsense,” he managed to say. “You were sensible to keep it as it was. Besides,” he continued, smiling cheekily through his tears. “It was always loose when it really mattered.”

Boromir returned the smile until another spasm of pain contorted his face. More blood fell from his lips, and his breathing grew shallower. Aragorn just sat, holding him, knowing the end was near, and knowing he could do nothing about it. He had never felt so helpless.

Then he saw Boromir’s lips move once more. He had to lean close to catch the words.

“Goodbye.” No more than the faintest whisper now. “I love you.”

“I love you,” whispered Aragorn in return. But he was not certain whether Boromir heard him or not. He had slipped away, and when he exhaled his last breath, Aragorn felt as if he would never breathe again either. He had already had a taste of life without Boromir, and he had felt lost without him. 

But now he was gone…forever. And Aragorn didn’t know if he would ever find his way again.


	13. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aragorn thinks about what he has lost.

Aragorn stood at the window of his chamber, gazing out over Minas Tirith and the Pelennor. In the north, the land was already in the grip of autumn, and around Fornost many of the trees had already dropped their leaves. But here, in the south, summer still lingered, and the foliage was only showing the slightest hint of gold. The mellow evening sunlight struck the walls of the city, making them shine like silver and pearl, as Aragorn knew the spire above him was also, providing a beacon to all those returning home after a long journey.

As it had for him.

Minas Tirith was clean now. Even air sparkled with renewal, now that the vermin that had dirtied it with their very breath were gone. It had two weeks to persuade – forcefully – all the Southrons in the city to leave. And a week in Fornost to eject the Dunlendings. But Aragorn was grateful for these tasks, for they at least gave him a solid path to tread. He could not lose himself while he had the well being of his kingdom to fight for. Even the hurried journey between the two cities had provided a distraction, his head filled with plans about what to do with the Haradrim. As well as the numerous stops at Dunlending settlements to remind them just who their King was.

But now all that was finished. The Reunited Kingdom was no longer under threat from Marin and his associates. Caern was doing an admirable job in continuing the resurrection of Fornost, and the King was back on his throne in Minas Tirith.

Except that he didn’t feel like a King. The gaping void inside him made Aragorn feel like a hollow shell of his former self. And this afternoon had brought that home to him with shocking clarity. For it was on this day that he had to inform his people of his loss…of their loss.

It was not new to them. Indeed, it had been felt for months now. But many had believed it was not permanent, that what had been taken from them would be returned. Aragorn had not looked forward to telling them otherwise. He knew he would be blamed, and so he had delayed, not wanting to bring more troubles to his people after the last ones were so latterly solved.

But they had a right to know. And so he had told them. Told them that they would not regain their lost sheep. Confessed his own part in their bereavement. But he had also told them of reconcilement, and reminded them that their loss was not in vain. And lifting his face to them, he had expected to see disgust in their eyes. Had expected to be rejected by them one and all. Instead, he had seen pity and sorrow on every face. And in that moment he had realised that the emptiness he felt inside him was shared by all. And it had overwhelmed him.

Sighing, Aragorn turned away from the window. He had fled up here to his chamber, trying to escape the depth of his pain and the reminder of it on the face of every single one of his subjects.

And he thought he had succeeded. This room had been tidied and freshened many times over the past few months. It did not appear as if even a King lived here, and all traces of its second occupant had vanished. Or so he had thought.

As he turned into the room, Aragorn’s eye was caught by something on the floor by the bed. All but obscured by the hangings, he would never have noticed it had not the sunlight been slanting through the window at exactly the right angle, illuminating a corner that was normally in shadow.

As he straightened up from retrieving the object, Aragorn was struck by a shock of painful recognition. Dangling from his fingers was a piece of cord, once used to control an errant crop of blonde hair, now discarded in a fit of passion. A flood of memories washed over Aragorn, making him feel faint, forcing him to sink on to the bed.

He was powerless to stop them. Images of laughter, comfort, and passion flashed in front of his eyes. Tears slid down his cheeks as he remembered the happiness he had felt in this room. Happiness shared with another.

As more and more memories came to him, Aragorn felt a deep pain awake inside him, one he had been trying to hide from ever since that fateful day at Fornost. But oddly enough, despair did not accompany it, as he had expected it would. Instead, he almost felt as if he was being cleansed.

And, with a flash of insight, he understood why. Running away from the pain wasn’t the way to deal with it, he realised. He had to accept it, had to let it in.

Falling back on to the bed, Aragorn indulged in the memories, allowing them to crowd out everything else in his head. Now was the time to remember. Now was the time to mourn. The piece of cord was twisted around his fingers, a talisman of the one he had lost.

Boromir.


End file.
